


Flinch

by kuragay



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Eating Disorders, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Panic Attacks, Recovery, Self Confidence Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9578444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuragay/pseuds/kuragay
Summary: Yuuri falls into old, toxic habits concerning food, and he and Viktor struggle to find a way to make it better.Between being good enough or being healthy again, it's hard to make a choice. It never occurred to Yuuri that he could be both.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yuuri's eating habits caught my attention from episode one, and although in the anime, it's not a super serious issue, I've always wondered what would happen if it was.  
> So I wrote it, naturally.
> 
> Please proceed with caution and take the tags into account.

Yuuri never meant for it to spin so out of his control.

With early April comes the end of the season, which means he put on a few pounds. And it’s not that bad. It’s not like he’s completely out of shape, and there’s nothing wrong with indulging. But after a season of skating in top condition, he feels the effects both physically and emotionally.

Viktor says he looks fine. Says that a bit of chub suits him and that he’s still cute. But it’s hard for Yuuri to feel like hot stuff when he looks sideways in the mirror and his stomach isn’t flat anymore. In a sense, he’s a bit envious of his friends who eat exactly the same as him and still look ready to run ten kilometres without breaking a sweat. Sometimes, Yuuri really hates his genetics.

“Yuuri.” Viktor pokes his head into the washroom, buttoning up his tan-coloured coat. “Time to go. We wouldn’t want to be late for dinner.”

Right, their dinner plans with all the other Russian skaters.

Yuuri tears his eyes away from the mirror, accepting the coat and scarf Viktor hands him and shakes all the nasty thoughts out of his head. He can lose the weight easily after all. There’s no point in fretting over it.

*

Russia is significantly colder than Japan, and the assault of warm air upon entering the restaurant is blissful. The atmosphere is buzzing, and everyone else is already there. Yuri Plisetsky is arguing with Mila whilst somehow sipping angrily on a red drink that Yuuri prays isn’t alcoholic, and Georgi seems to be having another romantic crisis as he types fervently on his phone. Yakov looks ready to pop a vein, and Lilia is probably the only one keeping her composure, although upon closer inspection, Yuuri can see her eye twitching every so often.

So really, just a day in the life.

“We’re here!” Viktor announces loudly, pulling out a chair and sitting down. Yuuri sits down next to him, trying to at least be a little more graceful, and smiles at everyone. They’ve all been very welcoming and accommodating, fitting him into their routines effortlessly. It helps ease Yuuri’s constant trail of anxiety, and he’s glad that in a foreign country, he has friends and family to rely on.

“Sorry we’re late,” Yuuri apologizes, and Yuri Plisetsky scoffs.

“Please,” the blond snorts, waving a hand flippantly. “We all know you guys were fucking, and that’s why you’re late.”

Yakov spits his drink all over the table as Viktor howls with laughter. Yuuri probably would’ve been more embarrassed if he wasn’t used to comments like this already. He doesn’t even bother to deny the claim, even though it’s not true, because everyone’s somehow already in mutual agreement that all he and Viktor do is have sex (which is ridiculous, because last Yuuri checked, they don’t have sex often at all. He’s really just prefers cuddling). Instead, he looks pointedly at the younger boy. “Language,” he chides, fully expecting the eye-roll he receives in response.

“We ordered without you,” Mila breaks in cheerfully. “Hope that’s alright.”

It is alright, but that’s because Yuuri can’t read Russian yet so he wouldn’t have been able to order anyway. And Viktor's the most indecisive person he knows, so it’s probably best they didn’t wait up.

“It’s fine.” Viktor waves her off, helping Yuuri out of his coat and scarf even though it’s not necessary. But Yuuri’s long accepted the touchier side of Viktor and just goes with it. It’s not like he doesn’t enjoy it, after all.

Slowly, he eases back into his seat, already exhausted even though it’s barely evening. It’s been like that a lot lately, the lethargic limbs and cotton-stuffed mind. Everything’s just been heavier, mentally and physically, and it’s the worst feeling. One that Yuuri’s accustomed to, but never quite learned how to deal with. Anxiety, insecurity, and the burning self-hatred is something that’s latched on to him and has yet to let go.

Looking around at the athletic bodies around him, he subconsciously makes himself sit straighter, despite his fatigue, wondering how people possibly stay in shape during the off-season. He swears that he eats a cookie and gains a pound. The though makes him wrinkle his nose, and an unsettling dread seeps into his head that he doesn’t even bother trying to get rid of.

Yuuri stands up, pushing his chair back. “I need to go to the washroom.” He takes in Viktor’s calculated look and knows that the older man knows him too well, but he sends a smile, hoping that it’s reassuring. “Just need to pee.”

“Ew,” Yuri Plisetsky wrinkles his nose. “We didn’t need to know that.”

A laugh wretches from Yuuri’s tight chest, and he simply waves a hand as he walks away, stomach churning as his lips rearrange themselves into a frown the moment he’s sure no one’s looking. He enters the washroom, glad that it’s empty, and looks in the mirror.

He can’t help but hate what he sees. Are his pants a little tighter? Is his face rounder? What do people think when they look at him?

Definitely not anything good.

He closes his eyes, feeling his lashes brush against his cheeks, and is it his imagination or do they feel a little wet? He doesn’t want to cry right now, not when he has no way of hiding his red eyes, so he takes a paper towel and wipes his face with some cold water, pretending that it helps, even though he doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be helping with.

His eating habits have been a part of him for as long as he can remember. Binges, followed by crazy restrictions, and when he was younger, throwing up. He likes to think that he’s better at handling it now, that he has it under control, but that’s a terrible lie.

 _They’re waiting._ They’re probably all waiting for him to begin the meal. He wipes his hands on his pants, shivering from a sudden chill, and forces himself to smile as he walks out, a fake spring in his steps. After all, he’s supposed to be happy after such a successful season. And he _is_. He’s so happy. There’s just a part of him that’s…not. _No matter._ He won’t ruin this dinner, not like how he’s ruined the tens and hundreds of other things. Even though he has doubts that he’s even important enough to ruin it anyway.

They’re all already eating, chatting away as the first courses arrive, and _of course._ Yuuri was a fool for thinking that anyone would wait up for him. He watches as Yuri Plisetsky spits something angry at Viktor, and the shaking of Viktor’s shoulders as he laughs. Everyone else is chattering, and even Yakov looks begrudgingly content. They feel like they’re in a freeze frame. A happy, Russian family, and Yuuri’s that one outsider looking in.

There’s a distance that’s almost tangible, and it doesn’t seem to fade away, even as Viktor spots him and smiles brightly. Even as Yuri Plisetsky yells at him to, _“Hurry up, you moron. You took so long in the washroom that I made bets on you falling in the toilet.”_

 _I’ll never be a part of this family,_ Yuuri thinks, and he suddenly chokes on his breath. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That he doesn’t need another family when he has one in Hasetsu. But Viktor has already been a part of that family for a long time now, and Yuuri wonders if he’ll ever be a part of Viktor’s. If he’s worthy enough to be a part of Viktor’s.

Before Yuuri even sits back down, Viktor’s already putting food onto his plate, and Yuuri stares, feeling his stomach squeeze, and a soft whisper licking his mind.

 _Don’t overeat._ He tries to remember the terrible feeling after a binge, and the overwhelming sense of failure. He tries to remember how bad he’ll feel later, how stuffed he’ll be if he overdoes it. But it’s no use because he doesn’t feel full right now.

He stares at the food, and the food stares back with eyes ten times as poisonous and fifty times as sharp.

*

What is he doing here? Yuuri’s kneeling on the floor of Viktor’s washroom, the smooth tiles cold even through his pants. The toilet no more than five inches away from his face.

He hasn’t been in this position since he was seventeen.

He overdid it at dinner, as suspected, and he wants to rewind time. Wants to remember this horrible, painful feeling in his stomach and never eat again. But time only moves forward, and he’s forced to move along with it.

_Don’t._

He’ll ruin the whiteness of the toilet bowl.

_Please, don’t._

His teeth will suffer.

_Not again._

His throat will tear, and his metabolism will be fucked.

But his stomach hurts so badly, and he’ll _gain weight._ He’ll become the piggy again, and the internet will blow up with how _Viktor deserves someone better. Someone more attractive and fitter and hotter._

He doesn’t think too much, knowing that it’ll be his downfall. Instead, he sticks two fingers down his throat, scraping against his flesh, and reopens old wounds.

*

The thing about throwing up is that not only does Yuuri feel absolutely gross afterwards, but he also gets dizzy and tired. It’s to be expected, of course, and the feeling is nostalgic. Not in a good way. Not at all. In fact, it’s more traumatizing that he expected it to be.

And even after nearly eight years, it’s just as familiar, just as easy to fall into, and just as nasty. Although, it hurts significantly less with an un-torn throat.

His fingers still smell of vomit, even though he’s washed his hands three times, but that’s familiar too. He’ll take a shower soon anyway, and nobody will know.

 Viktor can never know what transpired in this washroom, and Yuuri’s not keen on being careless, so he doesn’t plan to go out to face Viktor any time soon. Instead, he stares at himself in the mirror again, feeling much lighter physically, but a different story altogether mentally. He looks tired, even more so than before dinner, and his face is strangely pale, not to mention the coldness of his hands from running them under icy tap water for too long.

_I shouldn’t have._

But it felt so good to get rid of all the things in his stomach.

_It’ll ruin my career._

He had to do it. If he didn’t, he would’ve gained weight. He would’ve gotten fatter.

_I fucked up._

Yeah, he did, but he should be used to that by now.

But it’s fine. It’s fine because it’s a one-time thing, and as long as he doesn’t overeat again, it won’t be a problem. Yuuri takes a deep breath, and tell himself that it’s _fine. It’s okay._ He has better self-control than that, and he won’t mess up again. Tomorrow is a new day, and he can just eat better then. He doesn’t have to worry about what already happened.

After all, time only moves forward.

*

The numbers on the scale fade in and out of focus, and Yuuri sways, biting his lips. He’s lighter than a week ago, but heavier than during competition season. It should be natural to let himself go when he doesn’t have to be in tip-top condition, but he hates his body. Hates it so much that if he could rip it apart, he probably would.

He wants to drop a couple more pounds. Just a few, and it’ll make getting back in shape that much easier when it’s time to compete again. It won’t be anything bad, and he won’t do anything drastic. He’ll just stick to a healthier diet.

Yes, yes, that’s a good idea.

When he tells Viktor, Viktor blinks, tilting his head before mumbling out an, “Okay, although I don’t see anything wrong with treating yourself.”

And Yuuri almost screams, _“Weren’t you the one who called me Piggy before?”_ But he doesn’t. Instead, he presses his lips together and smiles brightly, nodding with false determination. “Being healthy isn’t a bad thing, right?”

He watches as Viktor’s expressions clears, smiling alongside Yuuri. “Of course not! I’m proud of you,” he exclaims, and Yuuri knows he’s won this round.  

*

They’ve started on the choreography for his new routine. It’s hard, and fast, and the difficulty is higher than anything Yuuri’s familiar with, but it feels nice to push his body. His muscles strain a little, but after a couple days, they grow more flexible.

There’s a Biellmann spin and an Ina Bauer, and it feels good to get back in touch a little with his femininity. Viktor likes it too and says he looks beautiful, which makes Yuuri blush every time even though he has a hard time believing that it’s true.

He’s losing weight though from the strenuous exercise, so that’s good, and he barely thinks about what happened after the restaurant anymore.

But of course, good things don’t last, and on a Sunday after a short jog, with Viktor out buying groceries, Yuuri messes up again.

There’s no one in Viktor’s home, and Yuuri takes it upon himself to clean a little and wash the dishes, which gradually grows into him becoming a little peckish, so he ruffles through the fridge for some food.

It’s filled with vegetables, sure, but he’s just looking for a quick fix—not to cook anything, so he rummages around until he spots some pastries. They’re from a café two blocks down where the Russian team went for brunch a couple days ago during a short break, and Viktor was gracious enough to keep the leftovers so they wouldn’t be thrown out.

Yuuri wants to turn away, to continue his search for something healthier, but he’s craving sugar and indulgence so badly that his resolve wavers before completely shattering.

_Just one bite._

He grabs a cranberry croissant, doesn’t even bother warming it, and sinks his teeth into the cold, buttery layers. It’s not flakey anymore, but it’s still sugary and fatty and better than anything Yuuri’s had all week.

Before he knows it, he’s eaten the entire croissant and already grabbing for another. The refrigerator beeps, telling him that he’s left it open for too long, and he takes the entire plate of pastries out before closing it. He eats it mechanically, bite after bite after bite, and he knows he should stop. He _knows._ But he can’t. He can’t and he hates himself a little more with every bite that he takes, but he’s so _hungry_ and it tastes so _good._

The last bite is the worst because after Yuuri sets down the plate, there’s nothing else to distract himself from the painful stretch of his stomach. Viktor’s going to be so _disappointed. Disgusted. Horrified._ At this point in their relationship, Yuuri should be a little more confident, but he still has trouble wrapping around his head that Viktor wants him. Actually, sincerely, wants someone like _him._

There’s still a way to fix this disastrous binge. Yuuri thinks of the toilet bowl, and his stomach, and how uncomfortably full he is, and it’s not even a hard decision. He’s already on his way to the washroom.

His bare feet pad against the wooden floors, and he doesn’t know why he feels so calm when he’s about to desecrate Viktor’s toilet. Again. For the second time. He should probably be ashamed, but he’s too desperate to get rid of the contents of his stomach for that.

He locks the washroom door behind him, double, triple, quadruple checking it, and slowly eases down onto his knees in front of the toilet bowl.

It’s ridiculously easy, and it’s definitely not something to be proud of. He still remembers how hard it was when he first tried it as a teen, and how disappointing the results were. But now, he sticks two fingers down his throat, and the food comes up. It’s painful because he hasn’t had any liquids, and the food hasn’t even began to digest, the bready pastries squeezing out of his throat. A couple times, the retching is so violent that he nearly chokes.

He flushes the toilet, wipes it down, washes him hands, flushes it again and washes his hands again. Then he washes his face, cupping water and bringing it to his mouth, swishing it around before spitting it back out. He does this a few times, checks the toilet one last time to make sure that there’s nothing floating around in it, then leaves.

He flops onto the bed, completely spent, he stomach almost painfully void. He feels a little sick—weak and dizzy, and when he closes his eyes he almost falls asleep. Thankfully, Viktor’s loud return is enough to rouse him from his semi-conscious state, and he sits up, stretching.

“I’m back!” Viktor’s cheery voice fills the house, and Yuuri gets off the bed, ready to go greet him. He hears the telltale signs of Viktor setting the groceries down on the counter, getting ready to put them away. There’s some rummaging, a couple seconds of silence, and then, “Yuuri?”

Yuuri exits the bedroom, heading over to the kitchen to see Viktor staring at an empty, crumb-covered, plate.

“You already ate?” Viktor asks, and the shame almost makes Yuuri consider just leaving to go back to the bedroom and lock the door.

“I—uh—yeah,” he stutters, looking as his feet as he wiggles his toes.

“ _All_ the pastries?” There’s probably no intentional judgement in Viktor’s tone, but Yuuri hears it anyway, flushing as he struggles to meet Viktor’s eyes.

“Sorry.” It’s soft, and embarrassed, and Viktor’s eyebrows furrow from it.

“Why? I said you could treat yourself, right? We’ll just be healthier at dinner.”

Really, Viktor probably said that to make Yuuri feel better, but now he just feels worse. He doesn’t want to be healthier at dinner. He doesn’t want to eat anything at all. He just wants to curl up on the bed, watch some YouTube videos, and take advantage of his free day.

But he can’t say that because it’ll make Viktor worry, and although Viktor doesn’t know the full extent of Yuuri’s continuous struggles with food, he at least knows _some,_ and that’s already too much. Instead, Yuuri nods, smiling. He’ll think of something to get out of eating later, he’s sure.

*

In the end, he eats dinner anyway, and throws it up later in the shower.

*

The next morning, Yuuri inhales a protein bar and two glasses of water. He doesn’t allow himself anything else, even though he’s twitching, _itching_ for more.

He doesn’t miss Viktor’s glance of concern.

“I’ll eat more later. I’m just not very hungry this morning,” Yuuri says in what he hopes to be a convincing voice.

Viktor doesn’t look like he buys it, but he thankfully drops the subject anyway. Instead, he packs a couple more protein bars inside his bag. “For later,” he tells Yuuri, “In case you get hungry.”

For some illogical reason, it makes Yuuri angry. He doesn’t want Viktor to pack food for him. He doesn’t want anyone else to control what he eats but himself. But he can’t say that to Viktor’s face, not when the Russian is being so generous, so he doesn’t voice his thoughts and lets himself be guided out the door.

They jog to the rink together, side by side, even though Viktor should be faster with his longer strides. But it’s always been like this. Viktor slows down a little for Yuuri, and Yuuri will take breaks when Viktor gets tired because Yuuri knows his stamina is better. It’s nice. Nothing in life has slowed down for Yuuri before, but Viktor does. He’s not always patient, but when Yuuri asks him to hit the brakes, he always will. That’s a type of love that Yuuri can’t possibly sum up in words. He doesn’t even know how he can possibly be adequate for a man like Viktor. A man who deserves everything when Yuuri only has meager offerings to give.

*

He doesn’t eat anything later. Instead, he drinks another two glasses of water and complains about an upset stomach to avoid all possible meals. And during the evening, he goes to bed before dinner and pretends to sleep, even when Viktor retires for the night, sitting on the bed and carding long fingers through Yuuri’s hair, sighing.

“I wish you would tell me what’s wrong,” Yuuri hears Viktor whisper in the darkness of the room.

He almost sits up right then than there. Almost starts to cry because he wants to tell Viktor everything, but he doesn’t. He pretends to sleep, and eventually, all that he hears are quiet snores.

*

Yuuri eats seven protein bars for breakfast before Viktor wakes up, and seven protein bars worth of vomit ends up in the toilet not even twenty minutes later.

He spends another twenty minutes in front of the mirror, turning weird ways to see if he looks okay, if his stomach is flatter, and if he’s thinner.

The numbers on the scale are a little better. Nothing drastic, and his weight is still considered healthy, but maybe he could lose a bit more. Throwing up after he eats doesn’t make him lose as much weight—if any at all—as just eating less. He knows this from past experience, but it’s easier to fool others if he eats in front of them. As long as he’s getting it out of his body later, it should be fine.

He calculates the time before the competition season starts, and how much he still has to refine, body and routine wise. But he’s determined to make this work. It’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.

*

He’s so dizzy by the time that they get to the ice rink that Viktor actually forces him off the ice.

“You’re not skating today.” It’s firm, no room for arguments, but also concerned. “You don’t look well.”

“I can skate!” He _has_ to. Yuuri has to skate, because if he doesn’t, he won’t be working on his routine, and he’ll choke and flub during the competitions and everything he’s been working for will be over.

Viktor looks are Yuuri in complete silence, he gaze terribly piercing, but Yuuri’s determined to hold it. “You won’t,” Viktor says. “You’re swaying on your feet right now.”

It’s true, Yuuri notes bitterly. He’s unsteady, and weak, and his throat and stomach both burn. Dejected, he sits down reluctantly, and Viktor’s shoulders slump in relief.

“The sooner you feel better, the sooner you can skate, so take it easy.” Viktor says it like it’s the easiest thing to do in the world, but it’s not. Because Yuuri doesn’t have a stomach bug, or the flu, or a cold. It’s something much, much worse, and he doesn’t even want to feel better. If feeling better is equivalent to gaining weight, that’s the last thing he wants.

“Okay,” he croaks. “Sorry for making you worried.”

Viktor sits down next to him, gathering Yuuri into his arms, radiating warmth, and Yuuri lets himself melt, if only for a second. “Of course I worry when you’re unwell.” His chin is on Yuuri’s head, body pressed right up against him. “So get well soon, okay?”

Yuuri nods. Or course he does. It doesn’t matter if it’s a lie because it’ll make assuage Viktor’s worries. Viktor is the most important person in his life, and there’s no way he’s going to ruin that because of his stupid brain and stupid body.

Slowly, Viktor pulls away, and Yuuri slumps on the bench. “Sorry,” he mumbles again, but the other only shakes his head.

“Don’t apologize for not feeling good. It’s not your fault.”

Yuuri very nearly lets out a laugh at the bitter irony, but manages to keep his composure. Because it’s _completely, utterly_ his fault. If he wasn’t so fucked up, none of this would’ve happened.

*

The toilet eats noodles for dinner.

*

The sides of the toilet bowl are starting to stain, despite Yuuri’s careful cleaning. Despite that half the time, he throws up in the shower. At least the shower isn’t staining too. That would be much harder to explain.

*

**_“Katsuki Yuuri Shaping up for New Season?_ **

_Japan’s ace figure skater, Katsuki Yuuri, has recently moved to Russia with his fiancé and coach, Viktor Nikiforov. The pair was spotted in a local park, Katsuki sporting a much thinner figure than previous years (click link for high-resolution photos). Katsuki has mentioned in previous interviews about problems with controlling his food intake. Could this change in appearance be a new, healthier life style for the upcoming season? We can’t wait to see what he has in store for us, now that he’s competing against Viktor Nikiforov who has recently announced his return to the ice (click link for video)._

*

He knows he’s been losing some weight. Probably too much weight. But it’s fine.

When you’re a professional athlete, no one really ever points out when you’re getting too thin. They only point out when you’re getting too fat.

Yuuri knows that first hand. He’s felt the backlash of the media during his weight gain, and now that he’s losing weight, no one sees it as a bad thing. Half of him is glad while the other half is simpering, wanting to be noticed.

Because, in the very, very back of his mind, buried deep down beneath all his self-doubts, insecurities, and desperation, he’s just someone who wants to be saved.

*

He’s sick. He knows this. He knows it’s spinning completely out of his control, and he doesn’t have a grasp on it anymore.

The ice is cold. It’s never been cold before, but now it is. He tries to warm up, practicing figure eights, lazily spinning around the ice and pretending that there are no black spots dancing in his vision. But he’s still so cold, shivering underneath his jacket.  

Viktor finally let him on the ice again after a day of begging, but it’s so hard to stay awake. It’s not fun anymore. Nothing’s fun anymore. Yuuri’s just…really tired.

*

He knows he’s hit a wall when he’s reckless enough to throw up with Viktor in the very next room. It’s, what, the third time today? He’s not sure. But it’s too much, too often, and he’s starting to see blood coming up with the food from the wounds in his throat. He pulls his fingers out, and the saliva is dotted in red.

It scares him. Of course it does, but not enough for him to stop. Not yet.

_Just a little more._

*

Viktor’s eyes are watching him. Always watching, and waiting. Yuuri notices that the Russian has started waking up earlier, preparing breakfast for the both of them. Smoothies and oatmeal and protein shakes. Nut butter on wholegrain toast with apple slices. Freshly squeezed orange juice and granola. And he sits there as Yuuri eats them, acting inconspicuous, but honestly, Viktor’s a terrible actor and Yuuri knows what he’s doing.

He still has breakfast with Viktor anyway, knowing it reassures the older male. And well, no one has to know why he takes so long to tie his skates up in the changing room.

He’s throwing up in public places now, and he knows it’s terrible. He knows it’s becoming unmanageable in a terribly short amount of time, and he’s perfectly aware that it’s more detrimental to his career than it is helpful. But how does one stop a habit?

Even when he tries to eat normal, he overeats, and what else is there to do but throw it all up?

He’s fallen off the deep end, the cliff looming above him, and no one reaches out to catch him.

*

Five times in one day. Viktor’s toilet. The changing room toilet. The washroom in that café. Viktor’s toilet again. The shower.

Five times.

He can’t even talk anymore without sounding like someone’s grating knives against his windpipe. Getting up in the morning is terrible, and every time he stands after sitting for too long, he nearly passes out from the dizziness, light-headed and in pain. His stomach is constantly cramping, and he’s exhausted all the time.

His muscles scream when he overworks them, he skips too many meals and eats too much when he doesn’t, and Viktor won’t stop watching him.

He’s going to be found out. He knows that it’s inevitable, but he doesn’t really know how to stop doing it. So he keeps going, and he’s not even careful about it anymore. He can’t find it in himself to care.

*

“The toilet bowl is stained,” Viktor says.

Yuuri nods, playing with his broccoli. It makes him feel oddly young as he flips the vegetable in the noodle broth, almost like he’s a kid avoiding his greens. “Yes. We should clean it.” He doesn’t understand why Viktor brought this up, but he answers as accordingly as he can.

“You’ve been losing weight.”

The broccoli slips through the chopsticks, splashing in the broth, and Yuuri swallows. _Oh._ “…Yes,” Yuuri answers hesitantly.

“You’ve also been dizzy a lot lately.”

Yuuri licks his lips, throat even dryer than usual as he stands up, setting his chopsticks down. He’s shaking, he realizes, and his stomach is squeezing tighter, and tighter, and _tighter._ “I’m not hungry anymore,” he whispers, pushing his chair in as he starts to leave. Viktor stands up too, following him.

“I…” The older man swallows. “I heard you throwing up yesterday morning. I tried to convince myself it was nothing because you…” He clenches and unclenches his fists, seeming at loss for words. Yuuri’s not sure what to say to make him feel better. “…You would never do that. At least that’s what I thought. But then after dinner last night, I heard you throwing up again. And this morning, and…” Viktor grabs Yuuri, the most serious Yuuri’s ever seen him. “What are you doing to yourself?”

Yuuri knew this was going to happens sooner or later, but he’s still ill-prepared for the confrontation. He doesn’t know how the mellow out what he’s been doing so it doesn’t sound as bad. He’s never felt this small before, and now that he does, he hates it. Wasn’t this what he wanted? To be small, thin, slender and fit.

“Yuuri, why are you doing this?” Viktor’s grip on Yuuri isn’t painful, but it’s firm enough to convey the weight of the conversation.

“I just—” Yuuri’s voice breaks, crackling, and he folds in on himself. “I just wanted to lose some weight. I never meant for it to get like this.” He looks up at Viktor, smiling weakly. “I guess old habits are hard to break.”

He watches as Viktor digests his words, understanding slowly lighting his face. “It’s not something recent.” It’s not even a question. Just a dejected statement.

“It’s not like that,” Yuuri denies because he doesn’t want any misunderstandings, and because now that Viktor’s found out the worse of it, he might as well know the full story. “I haven’t been doing it in secret the entire time I’ve known you or anything. I was young. Maybe fifteen? And I was made fun a lot in school. I was already pretty serious with my skating, but I still gained weight easily. And by then, everyone already knew me as the fat kid. So I though losing weight wouldn’t hurt, you know?”

“Yuuri…” Viktor sighs, pressing their foreheads together.

“It wasn’t that bad at first.” Yuuri wants to stop talking, but if he stops now, he probably won’t be able to start in a long while. So he just hopes it’ll get easier the longer he goes on for. “I restricted, and binged, and started…throwing up my food. And it went on for a while. When I was sixteen, I realized it was interfering with my skating and stopped.” Working some moisture into his mouth, he takes a pause to recuperate, closing his eyes. He hopes he doesn’t start crying because that would make the situation all the more mortifying.

“So, was this the first time since then, or…?” Viktor trails off, voice quiet in the space, just for the two of them.

“No,” Yuuri breathes. “I relapsed a little from time to time, but by the time I was seventeen, I was deemed as fully recovered.”

Viktor’s silent for a while, and then, “But then you started again. Why?”

“The season ended, and I put on weight, so I—”

“But you didn’t put on that much. You were fine,” Viktor interrupts.

A bitter smile works its way onto Yuuri’s face, and he takes Viktor’s hand, mostly for his own reassurance, but also to ease what he says next _._ “You called me Piggy during our first proper meeting…well, the first one I remember. And I was scared that you would see me as...a pig or something. And I was terrified I would get too fat, and you deserve someone so much better, so after we went to that restaurant with everyone, I threw up, and then I started throwing up more and more and more, and now I don’t know how to stop, and I know it’s terrible, and that I’m terrible, but It’s spun to a degree that I didn’t expect it to and—” He stops to cough painfully, aggravating his already torn throat, and he face scrunches up in a wince.

“I’m sorry.” Viktor’s so sincere, radiating so much guilt that it’s hard for Yuuri to keep his anger.

“It’s fine.”

“No really, I’m sorry. You weren’t even fat. You just weren’t at the required weight for a professional figure skater. I didn’t mean that you were—ugh.” Viktor waves his arms around, flailing as he searches for the right words, and it’s not hard to see that he’s frustrated. “You were cute anyway. Gorgeous anyway. You’re beautiful when you put on weight and beautiful when you lose it. But this, you aren’t _healthy,_ Yuuri.”

“I _know,”_ Yuuri stresses, and to his horror, he feels a burning in his eyes. “I know. I know I need help, but I just don’t want to be called fat anymore. I just want to be good enough for you and good enough for myself.”

“You _are_ good enough for me. And to be good enough for yourself, you have to treat yourself right, which you’re clearly not doing.”

“I know.” It’s uttered quietly this time, and Yuuri brings his head to Viktor’s shoulder, hiding the wetness that has begun to slide down his cheeks. His chest squeezes, and he has a small dizzy spell, but he stays standing. “I know I’m unwell.”

“You need help.” It’s not unkind, the way Viktor says it, but Yuuri finches anyway.

“I…can’t.” He breathes deeply, as deeply as his lungs will fill, and then exhales, and he knows that he needs help. He _knows_ it. He does, but the thought of baring himself so nakedly to anyone but Viktor makes him want to throw up again and again and again. Because therapy doesn’t work. Not in his experience, at least. But then Viktor makes a sound in the back of his throat that sounds very much like distress and disappointment, and Yuuri feels a piece of himself shatter. “I’ve gotten help before, when I was younger,” Yuuri admits, “but it didn’t really work. They kept talking about their ideals, and it was all about weight to them, as ironic as that is. They didn’t care how I was gaining weight, as long as I was gaining. I could’ve been eating McDonalds seven days a week and they would still praise me. It was honestly a little soul crushing.”

He feels Viktor’s body tense, and the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. “We’ll find you someone better,” Viktor proposes, and Yuuri doesn’t really get his determination. He doesn’t think the trouble’s worth it, not to mention the cost. And honestly, he’s been dealing with his stupid brain for as long as he can remember, and he’s not dead yet.

He kind of just wants Viktor to drop the subject.

“I’m tired,” Yuuri mumbles, face still pressed into Viktor, tasting salt on his lips. He hopes Viktor will forgive him for ruining his shirt with tears.

There’s a sigh, and then, “We’ll talk later.”

Yuuri doesn’t want to talk later. He doesn’t want to talk ever, but he nods anyway. “Of course.”

Well, he never claimed to be an honest person.

 *

For a while, it really does get better. Yuuri makes an effort to eat healthier, more greens and colours and no more pastries.

Viktor continues to make breakfast, and he stares even harder than before, not allowing them to leave the house until Yuuri’s eaten all of it. He stops leaving the changing room before Yuuri, and he never lets him go to the public washrooms alone.

But just because someone notices doesn’t mean the urges stop. There are times when Yuuri wakes up and he’s ravenous. So ravenous that he sneaks into the kitchen, mind frazzled, opening hidden tins of cookies and snacking until there are only crumbs left. Then he’ll get in the shower, fingers down his throat, and his knees will hit the floor as everything comes up.

Viktor doesn’t know the shower part. Hopefully he never will.

Yuuri tries. He really, really does. But it’s so _hard._ He’ll want to get better, and he’ll be determined, and then he’ll enter the skating rink where everyone’s body is gorgeous, and the swirling darkness in his mind takes over until he can’t think anymore. Until all he knows is that he’s _not good enough._

Every morning is another opportunity to stare in the mirror and hate what he sees.

But even more than that, every morning is another opportunity to worry about his future, and his career, and his failures. Because that’s really what it all stems from. It doesn’t even start with his body. It just starts with insecurity in general.

And there’s no way he can fix that.

It’s six in the morning, and Yuuri and Viktor are just coming back from their jog with Makkachin. It’s their day off, and although Yuuri would much prefer to be skating, Viktor keeps shooting him these looks. He figures it’ll be easier to placate the Russian if he actually listens to instructions for once.

“Breakfast!” Viktor cheers, heading to the kitchen. Yuuri feeds Makkachin and then joins him, tying on an apron.

“I can cook,” Yuuri says.

Viktor looks at him, seems reluctant, and Yuuri knows he shouldn’t feel hurt but he does. Is it really not okay for him to handle anything food related at all? “How’s about we cook together?” Viktor suggests, but Yuuri hears, _“I have to witness everything you do because if I don’t trust you anymore.”_ He knows it’s probably not Viktor means at all, but that’s what his brain translates it to, and it sticks.

But then he looks at Viktor, and he’s reminded of how much he loves the man, and he already feels terrible for worrying him. “Alright,” Yuuri concedes, and hands Viktor an apron as well.

He knows he hasn’t given Viktor any reason to trust him again. He knows he’s not doing very well at getting better. But he just wants a little control over what he eats. Just once. But it seems he’s not even getting that.

*

It’s a good thing, in retrospect, that Viktor doesn’t really trust him to do anything alone anymore.

Yuuri wakes up earlier—much earlier—than usual, and he eats breakfast, making sure to leave the dirty bowls out so Viktor knows. And then he takes a shower, tries to keep his food in, but ends up with fingers down his throat anyway. Porridge, bile, and specks of blood. The acrid taste in his mouth. He does it so mechanically that it doesn’t even feel real at all.

He rinses out his mouth, the water pounding onto his face, into his eyes, covering him in heat, and he wonders if maybe he should cry, if that would help the tightness coiled in his chest.

When he gets out of the shower, Viktor’s still not awake, and Yuuri changes into a loose shirt and some joggers, slipping on his running shoes. And he knows he shouldn’t. He knows that he should wake Viktor, and that they can jog together, but he feels so suffocated lately.

Yuuri’s…not good at human interaction. He loves Viktor. He loves Viktor so, so much, but he’s also someone who really needs his alone time, and usually Viktor’s good at that, but lately, he’s been attached-at-the-hip to Yuuri. And Yuuri doesn’t want to say anything because it’s obvious that the older male’s just worried, and it’s Yuuri’s fault for making him worry, so surely he should stick it out. Even if it upsets him, it’s better than upsetting Viktor.

But he really can’t deal anymore, and _it’s just a short jog,_ h _e_ reasons. He’ll be back before Viktor wakes up, and no one will have to know.

Doing slow, warm-up arm circles, Yuuri heads out the door with Makkachin, making sure to close it gently before locking it.

He heads off in the usual direction, breathing steadily, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. It’s so nice to just be able to be out before the world wakes up. The streets are quiet, and the only sound he hears are his and Makkachin’s steps, falling in sync with each other. His animal companion never fails to make him feel better, and better yet, no human interaction needed.

It’s so easy to fall into routine, and Yuuri doesn’t even notice anything’s wrong until he’s falling over, and _what?_ He’s only a couple kilometers from his starting point, and he’s been jogging for less half an hour, and _why is he falling over?_ He tries to regain his footing, but he can’t because he’s so dizzy. Black spots hazing his vision as he tries to breathe, clutching his chest, ears ringing loudly.  

His legs are noodles, and he’s out before he hits the ground, his stream of consciousness leaving him with Makkachin’s distressed barking and the taste of bitter regret.

*

There is shouting next to his ears, and he knows it’s Viktor. He knows it’s too cold, and that he’s outside, and that he was jogging. He knows he passed out. What he doesn’t know is how Viktor found him, and why he sounds so scared.

He opens his eyes, and the sun isn’t that much higher, so he concludes that he probably wasn’t out for more than fifteen minutes, and he wonders why he’s so calm because evidently, Viktor’s not. Maybe he’s just numb, and the reality of what happened will set it later.

“Yuuri! Love! What happened?” Blue, wide, eyes are staring at him imploringly, and Yuuri doesn’t know how to answer.

All he knows is that he keeps fucking up.

“I…don’t know.” Yuuri’s breath hitches, and he feels the onslaught of tears coming, and _oh,_ there’s the panic. Just a little delayed, but thankfully not absent. At least he knows now that he hasn’t lost the capacity to feel. “I think I passed out?”

Carefully, oh so carefully, Viktor helps him up, Makkachin nudging Yuuri’s back to keep him steady. His arms are skinned, and his knees sting pretty badly, but he hopes that’s the worst of it.

“Did you hit your head?” Viktor asks breathlessly, and Yuuri takes a good look at him. Disheveled, sweaty, and terrified. Viktor definitely ran here, probably looking for Yuuri.

The guilt is terrible, churning his gut and squeezing his lungs, and he wants to black out again just so he doesn’t have to deal with it.

But he brings himself back to Viktor’s questions, touching his head tentatively, feeling for bumps or pain. He’s a little dizzy, but he figures that’s left-over from earlier, so he shakes his head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

He watches as Viktor’s shoulders sag in relief. “Good, good. Wow, you gave me quite the scare.” Viktor runs a flighty hand through his hair, pushing silver strands out from his face, and grabs Yuuri gently as he tries to stand up. He sways a little, blinking rapidly at the light-headedness, but it fades after a couple of seconds.

“I’m okay,” Yuuri reassures, although it’s probably not very convincing. He doesn’t feel okay. He feels like he’s breaking apart, and Viktor’s witnessing all of it. If his dizziness doesn’t make him pass out again, his shame just might.

“You need to see someone,” Viktor breaks the silence as they start on their trek home, leash now attached to Makkachin. It’ll take them around forty minutes by foot, but there’s no way Yuuri’s getting in a cab. Even thinking about the enclosed space makes him shudder, and it could take the entire day and he would still walk.

It doesn’t matter how weak he feels, or how much his limbs want to work against him. If he has to sit in a car for even five minutes, he might actually lose it. He’s holding himself together with masking tape right now, the wind threatening to tear it off.

“They don’t help.”

“Then we’ll find you someone who does!” It’s loud, and snappy, and Viktor just sounds so _tired._ “You can’t keep going on like this, pretending that everything’s fine and dandy. Yuuri, you’re killing yourself! You’re killing yourself that it’s killing me to watch. Have you ever stopped to think about what you’re doing? You’re career, your life, you’re destroying all of it! Be rational for moment.”

Yuuri flinches back, more violently than he intended, and he hates that he can feel wetness on his lashes, but he can’t _stand_ being yelled at. He does that enough himself, and the fact that Viktor’s raised his voice is too much.

It’s so easy to become overwhelmed.

Before he knows it, he’s sobbing, and he has to stop walking because he can’t do both at the same time unless he wants to faint again. He’s not physically or mentally strong enough for a berating. “Please stop yelling at me,” he cries, and he hates the way his words tumble out of his mouth. Breathless, stilted, _crumbling._ His world is crumbling away. “Please stop. I know. I know. I know everything you’re saying. I _know all of it._ It’s not that easy. _It’s not that easy!_ ” He’s clutching his chest again, and Viktor’s standing rigid, eyes widening as he lurches forward, catching Yuuri before he falls.

He curls up against Viktor’s chest, just trying to _breathe_ because it’s getting so hard, and he hates confrontations. Despises them with every fibre of his being. Even the first, much calmer, confrontation with Viktor was hard to handle. But this is so much worse. Every part of Yuuri wants to run away. To take flight. To get out of the situation at hand.

“I’m sorry,” He hears Viktor mumble, lips pressed to his hair. He wants to tell Viktor to stop kissing his sweaty, gross head, but he’s too tired to open his mouth again. Every extension of his body screams with fatigue, the lethargy greater than anything Yuuri’s ever felt.

Viktor lets go of him, only to come back a second later with a juice box, carefully putting the straw in Yuuri’s mouth. He doesn’t protest, sipping in intervals.

It’s sweet, fruity, and cold, and although it does little to replenish his strength, it gives him something else to focus on to calm down.

“Feel a bit better?” Viktor asks once Yuuri’s done with the juice box, and he nods, handing the empty carton over. Viktor takes it and tucks it into his coat pocket. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes again.

“Can we go back?”

Viktor nods, helping him to his feet again, and Yuuri can practically feel the hesitation radiating off him. “You can touch me,” Yuuri says. “It’s fine. I’m okay now.” It’s kind of a lie because he’s really not okay. Not by a long shot. But he’s fine with human contact at least.

A steady arm supports him all the way back, unrelenting and unwavering. By the time they reach the apartment, the sun is all the way in the sky, and the streets are loud and bustling once again. The world has awoken.

*

True to his word, Viktor finds someone who Yuuri can talk to. A professional who listens, and who gives advice, and who Yuuri slowly opens up to.

It’s hard. It’s so hard, and for the first session, he just sits in his chair, hands clenched onto his lap, stubbornly tight-lipped. He remembers Viktor’s distressed face after the therapist told Viktor about the session, and how Viktor turned to Yuuri and said, “Please, _try,_ ” and the, even more desperately, “ _please.”_

So Yuuri tries a little harder, forcing words from his mouth, mechanically working through each session with _yes_ and _no_ s. And eventually, with sentences carefully strung together.

Sometimes Viktor joins them, a constant support, nodding at the therapist’s suggestions. He even takes notes.

It’s weird to have someone so concerned over him, but he finds that he doesn’t quite mind. Sure, sometimes there are conversations that he would rather Viktor not listen to, but sometimes there are ones where he wants nothing more but for Viktor to be next to him. It’s difficult to find a good balance between the two, but it works out.

Yuuri gets bloodwork done, and the results are a bit terrifying. Iron levels low. Blood sugar levels frightful. Everything’s a mess.

But it gets better. Slowly. Besides, messes aren’t permanent, and even twenty-four year old stains can be cleaned with work and effort. Maybe not completely, but hey, if the stain fades even a little, it’s a small success.

*

He doesn’t really gain much weight, but that’s to be expected. He’s a professional athlete after all. He could gain weight quickly if he really tried, but binge eating isn’t exactly a healthy way to do it. So they give him a meal plan, and although he’s advised to take a break the next skating season, that’s one thing he can’t agree on.

So they compromise. He eats properly, and treats himself properly, and he’s allowed to skate after taking a three weeks off.

And sure, his weight doesn’t go up much, but he _feels_ better. His blood work tells him he has ways to go, but he’s willing to work for it.

Viktor makes breakfast, hides the cookies and junk food even better than before, and makes sure that Yuuri eats every last bite of his portions. If Yuuri wants to binge, he’ll go to Viktor, and Viktor will distract him with conversation and video games, and sometimes cuddles if really necessary. It doesn’t always work, but even on bad days, things aren’t as bad as they used to be.

Viktor gives Yuuri space when asked, but he also gives Yuuri love and affection, and it’s so _nice._

It’s just really, really nice. Nice to be home in Viktor’s arms. Nice to be home in _their_ room, on _their_ bed, in _their_ house.

 *

He steps foot onto the ice rink, and Yuri Plisetsky skates up to him, stopping millimetres away, and gets right up in his face.

“Where were you this past week?” Short, to the point, but Yuuri detects poorly-concealed concern.

He smiles warmly, ruffling the younger’s hair despite his squawk of protest. “I was sick,” he says. It’s not really the truth, but that’s alright. He’ll share one day, probably.

“Oh, and was Viktor sick too?” Yuri Plisetsky snorts. “Because he didn’t show up either.”

“He was taking care of me.”

“You guys are gross.”

“Who’s gross?” Viktor skates over, and the younger Russian growls.

“You! Both of you! Figures that if one’s sick, the other won’t come too. Or were you just slacking off?”

And Yuuri surprises himself, because he throws his head back and _laughs._ It’s not very loud, and a little bit fragile, but both Russians stop and stare at him.

“Why are you laughing?” Yuri Plisetsky snaps, although he sounds pleasantly surprised underneath the anger, and Yuuri wonders when he became fluent in Yurio.

And the Mila and Georgi are skating over too. “What’s so funny?” Mila asks, leaning against the barrier.

“Is this a pleasant and light-hearted conversation about soulmates and love?”

Everyone shoots Georgi a look.

“Not everything’s about love!” Yuri Plisetsky sounds done with everything, but Yuuri can’t stop laughing, and Viktor’s arm is thrown around his shoulder, holding him close.

 It’s…fun. It’s fun to be on the ice with the Russian skating family, and he knows Yakov is yelling, but it sounds almost fond.

“Get back to work!” A vein is bursting on Yakov’s forehead, and everyone turns to smile at him. Effectively making his eye twitch, a “ _why do I even bother?”_ mumbled under his breath.

Even Lilia looks to be smiling, somewhat. Yuuri’s grown oddly fond for the woman, having danced for her earlier in the day as Yuri Plisetsky watched. And Lilia had said, “You can help Yura improve his fouetté turns.”

Yuuri had nodded awkwardly, but he was surprised that when he looked toward Yuri Plisetsky, instead of faked disdain, there was blatant admiration. It made something warm open up in Yuuri’s chest, and he never wants that warmth to go away. To be looked up to, it’s unfamiliar, and also scary, but he finds that he doesn’t mind it.

It’s so easy to be with the Russian skaters, and the distance between them is always, always closing. Yuuri wonders if it was ever there in the first place, or if it was just another fabrication of his mind.

*

There are days when Yuuri hates looking at the mirror, and days when he just can’t tear his eyes away. He can’t help it. He looks, and he wonders what Viktor even sees. What Viktor can possibly like. He scrutinizes, and he pinches his skin, and he struggles not to hate how he looks.

Because Viktor calls him beautiful.

And his Russian family constantly reassures him of his supposed attractiveness. Even Yuri Plisetsky once stared and spat, “Yes, you’re good looking. Stop being so self-deprecating you stupid pork cutlet bowl.”

But Yuuri looks in the mirror and he can’t see it at all.

He looks in the mirror and he can’t name a single thing he likes.

“Yuuri,” Viktor pokes his head in the washroom, and a wave of déjà vu washes over him. “It’s time to go.”

Yuuri turns like a deer caught in headlights because he’s not really supposed to look in the mirror all that often. It’s a part of his treatment.

But Viktor doesn’t look mad. Instead, he takes Yuuri hands that have been pinching his stomach, and carefully holds them, bring them to his lips.

Tenderly, he kisses every single one of Yuuri’s fingers, lingering on the ring, and then looks up and kisses Yuuri’s lips. “Let’s go, okay? We don’t want to be late.”

And Yuuri nods, melting as Viktor helps him slip his arms into a coat—Viktor’s coat—and puts on his cat ear hat. It’s warm, wrapped in Viktor’s larger coat, head warmed by the soft tuque.

Yuuri’s lips still tingle from when Viktor kissed them earlier, and he savours the feeling, something pleasant thrumming in his veins. And sure, he’s sad, and some days it’s too hard to get up in the morning. Some days, he wakes up and wants to go back to sleep.

But it’s always been like that. At least now, he has Viktor. He has the Russian skating team. He has his family and friends back in Hasetsu. He’s not doing everything alone anymore.

“Yes, let’s go,” Yuuri says, tearing his gaze away from the mirror and to Viktor’s face.

There’s no point in looking back when he can look forward.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually struggled a lot in this fic to find a balance between being detailed, but also not too explicit. I really wanted to make it as realistic as possible, but I didn't want to give any accidental purging tips for people who are currently struggling with with an eating disorder. Hopefully I did okay!


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